The air outside the Killing Fields was damp, carrying the stench of metal and decay. In Slaughter City, it was always the same — a mixture of rusted blood, mold from the stones, and the faint acrid bite of torches that never seemed to die.
Gu Kuangren walked out into the open lane, his boots still stained from the earlier fight. The cobblestones beneath him were cracked, blackened by countless stains that no rain had ever washed away. Above, the city was cloaked in perpetual gloom, the sky like ash pressed down against the jagged rooftops.
He inhaled deeply, chest rising as if he were drawing in the scent of flowers. To him, this was perfume.
He didn't notice when Zhu Zhuqing followed. Or perhaps he did notice — but chose not to care.
Her footsteps were light, almost soundless, yet his crimson eyes flicked back for the briefest instant, acknowledging her presence without a word. He kept walking, his pace unhurried, as though daring her to either keep up or vanish.
She kept up.
The two moved in silence through the twisted alleys. Here, silence was dangerous. Most who survived long in Slaughter City learned to make noise, to seem larger, louder, less tempting to predators. Silence meant confidence… or death.
Finally, Zhu Zhuqing's voice broke the quiet. It was soft, but in the heavy stillness, every word carried like a knife's edge.
"You weren't born here."
Kuangren's crimson eyes slid toward her, then forward again. His long hair shifted across his shoulders as he tilted his head slightly.
"No," he said. "But I belong here."
Zhu Zhuqing's gaze flickered to the blood still clinging to his clothes. "Why?"
Kuangren chuckled low, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Because only here am I free."
They turned a corner. A broken wooden sign hung from rusted chains above a doorway, swaying in the constant underground breeze. Kuangren ducked into it without hesitation. Inside, the place was barely lit — a tavern of sorts, if it could be called that. Cracked tables. Rotting chairs. A barkeep with eyes so dead he could have been mistaken for a corpse.
Kuangren didn't sit at a table. He claimed a corner against the wall, leaning his massive frame back, stretching out as though daring the shadows to challenge him.
Zhu Zhuqing didn't sit at first. She remained standing, golden eyes fixed on him with a look that was part study, part challenge. Only after a long silence did she move, taking the chair opposite.
Her posture was straight, rigid, controlled. His was loose, sprawling, yet the weight of his presence filled the space between them.
Kuangren let the silence linger before he spoke again.
"I don't remember my parents," he said suddenly, his voice flat, almost casual, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. "Or maybe I do, and I've simply buried them. The faces blur together. A woman's scream. A man's hand reaching. Then nothing."
His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. "The only thing that ever felt real was blood. My own, at first. Later, theirs."
Zhu Zhuqing didn't interrupt. She didn't soften, didn't offer pity. She only listened. That alone was unusual enough for him to continue.
"I learned early that life is cheap. That anyone can be taken from you in a blink. So why pretend? Why cling to illusions of kindness, mercy, justice? In the end, everyone bleeds the same. Everyone dies the same. Only strength decides who lives long enough to enjoy it."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, his crimson eyes catching hers with unrelenting intensity.
"And I enjoy it."
Zhu Zhuqing's lips pressed into a thin line.
Most would recoil. Most would brand him insane, just as the city already had. Yet her golden eyes didn't waver.
Finally, she asked quietly, "If you enjoy it so much, what happens when there's no one left to kill?"
Kuangren blinked. Then he laughed — a sharp, barking sound that startled even the dead-eyed barkeep for a moment.
"No one left?" He shook his head slowly, his long hair sliding across his shoulders like a curtain of black silk. "There will always be someone left. Always another arrogant fool who thinks their blade is sharper, their spirit stronger. The world is endless prey, Zhu Zhuqing. It just doesn't know it yet."
He leaned back, grinning, exposing sharp white teeth.
"And if somehow, by some miracle, I do run out? Then perhaps I'll finally be at peace."
For the first time, Zhu Zhuqing's mask cracked — barely. A shadow of something passed across her face. Not fear. Not disgust. Something closer to recognition, or perhaps unease.
"You're insane," she said softly.
Kuangren's grin widened. "Maybe. But insanity tastes better than lies."
The barkeep shuffled forward, slamming down two chipped cups filled with a liquid so dark it could have been blood. Kuangren picked his up without hesitation, tilting it back and swallowing deep. The bitter, acrid burn slid down his throat, and he exhaled with satisfaction.
Zhu Zhuqing didn't touch hers. She only watched him, golden eyes thoughtful, guarded.
"You despise Tang San," she said suddenly, testing the words like bait on a hook.
Kuangren froze. His crimson eyes sharpened, the air around him tightening like a noose.
Slowly, he lowered his cup, setting it down hard enough to crack the wood beneath.
His voice was quieter now, but far more dangerous.
"Despise," he repeated. "You're too kind. Tang San… is a blemish. A hypocrite. A coward wearing the mask of righteousness. He plays at virtue while bathing in blood. At least I don't hide what I am."
His hand flexed on the table, the faint shimmer of spirit power licking across his knuckles.
"One day, I'll carve that mask from his face. And when he dies, I'll savor every second."
The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Even the barkeep shuffled farther away, pretending not to hear.
Zhu Zhuqing held his gaze. Her expression hadn't changed, but something in her eyes — a faint flicker of… respect? curiosity? — lingered.
Finally, she leaned back slightly, her voice quiet. "You're dangerous, Gu Kuangren."
He smiled, slow and sharp.
"I know."